Steeling The Dream
by RSteele82
Summary: (HOW series) Part 3 of the Steele Cold Facts trilogy. Remington is torn when the two most important women in his life have a crisis at the same time. One will sail through, while the other will be in the battle of her life. Are happy endings only in fairy tales?
1. Chapter 1

_**The third and final installment of the HOW Steele Cold Facts trilogy.**_

 _ **We're just going to get our feet wet this week.**_

* * *

Chapter 1

Mildred's hand flew to her chest and her face contorted as the phone she'd held in hand slipped free and clattered to the floor while she gasped for breath. The world tilted crazily on its axis and it felt, to her, like someone had suddenly deposited a Mack truck on her chest. Only moments before each breath had come easily, unnoticed, but now the same task took Herculean effort and required every bit of her concentration.

 _A sudden, loud thump. The sound of metal grinding against metal and shattered glass. Miss Holt cut off in midsentence._

 _Miss Holt!_

With one hand clutching at her chest, she dropped to her knees and scrambled for the phone with her free hand. Snatching it up, she pressed it against her ear.

"Miss Holt?"

The answering silence was deafening.

"Miss Holt!" she cried out, praying for an answer that didn't come.

* * *

With a moan, Fred reached for the door handle before the limo had even settled on all four tires again. His head jerked from side-to-side like faulty bobble-headed doll when the tires made contact with the ground, the frame of the limo groaning under its own weight as it settled back on the road. In an instant, he slung the door open and tried to lunge from the vehicle, only to discover he was still restrained by the seat belt. Releasing the latch he tumbled out, hitting the asphalt on his knees before forcing himself to his feet.

Traffic on Wilshire had been unusually light for midday during the work week. The light hadn't even been yellow, but green, beckoning it was safe to continue forward. The transport truck had come of nowhere. He'd seen a flash in his peripheral vision, but it had been too late as the truck had t-boned them, hard enough that the passenger side of the limo had tilted ominously upwards.

Yanking open the rear, driver's side door, Fred threw himself inside.

 _Oh shit. OhshitOhshitOshit._

Miss Holt's face was covered in blood, enough so that he could watch it drip from chin to chest. She'd take the brunt of the impact, the truck ramming into the door next to which she'd been sitting. Unconscious, it was only her seat belt preventing her from falling in repose against the seat.

 _Unless it's a choice of life and death, do not move someone who is injured._

His first aid training played through his mind. Was it a choice of life and death? How was he supposed to know? He had no medical training except for the damned first aid class his sister had insisted he take before he could take his six-year-old niece on trips around the city on their uncle and niece days.

 _The phone._

It wasn't on the cradle. He grabbed the cord and reeled it in. Only then did he realize someone was on the other line.

"Hello?"

"Fred!" Mildred puffed between gasps of breath. "Fred! What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"We've been in an accident. Corner of Wilshire and Western. Call for help. Call the Boss. Miss Holt took the brunt of it. It looks bad. I gotta go."

Without ceremony he hung up the phone and returned his attention to Laura. Her chest rose and fell, a good sign. That she was out cold… well, that wasn't so good. His gaze returned to the seat belt, something about it causing worry to niggle at his brain.

 _What? What? What is it?_

The appointment! It couldn't be good for the baby to have the seat belt digging into Miss Holt's stomach like that.

 _Where's the help already!_

Hearing no sirens in the distance yet, Fred went with his gut. Cradling Laura's head in one hand, he released the seatbelt with the other then eased her down on the seat.

"Miss Holt?" he called, to no avail.

Fingering through her hair, he found the source of the bleeding. Yanking off his jacket, he quickly removed the dress shirt beneath then tugged his t-shirt up over his head. Folding it, he lay it over the gash and applied pressure.

Then sat back and waited for help to arrive…

* * *

"Magnifique, comme toujours, mon ami," Remington complimented Pierre as he removed the empty place which not too long ago had sported canapés au camembert upon it. He hummed in approval as the waiter standing next to Pierre presented the second course: pan-seared artichoke with balsamic glaze.

"Je suis heureux qu'il réponde à l'approbation de quelqu'un avec vos goûts exigeants," Pierre replied. "Jacques, leur vin." He snapped his fingers in disapproval at the waiter, who hastily picked up the bottle of wine and topped off the glasses. Without missing a beat, Pierre switched to English, for Daniel's sake. "With my own hand, I've prepared the _faisan fourré à la sauge et aux_ _pommes_ vertes. No more than ten minutes and it will be yours to savor. I will leave you to your meal." With a bow, he left the two men to one another's company.

"So, tell me Daniel, how is that stud you were so enraptured with working out?" Remington wondered, taking a bite of the artichoke.

"I think we've indulged in more than our share of trivial matters between last evening and lunch thus far, don't you?" Daniel challenged, with the lift of a single brow. "Tell me, Harry, how do things fare with your Linda these days?" Remington looked up through his lashes at Daniel as he leaned over to take another bite of his food.

"Well, I don't mind saying Laura and I were both caught unaware when we realized you and our Ms. Krebs had become co-conspirators," he announced.

"All for good cause, my boy," Daniel was quick to reply. "All that skulking about was putting quite the damper upon my relaxation time." Remington nodded.

"Yes… well… thank you," he told his mentor, sincerely.

"Then might I assume your days of traveling the world are over?" Remington raised brows at the man.

"Enough so that the loft and flat have been placed on the market," he confirmed as he took another bite. "Matter of fact, Laura's meeting with a potential buyer for the, even as we speak," he grinned.

"Planning on, in that crass American terminology, 'shacking up'?" Daniel speculated.

"I prefer the term 'living together', but, yes, that… is what Laura and I have agreed to." Daniel's eyes studied the younger man, as Remington concentrated on the food before him while studiously avoiding Daniel's gaze.

"But you've something else on your mind that she neither knows about nor has agreed to, is that it?" Daniel asked. The way Remington's eyes flickered to him, then away was all the answer required. Setting down his fork Daniel reached for his tumbler of scotch while regarding his protégé. His sudden laughter drew the eyes of several nearby diners. "Planning to shackle yourself to her, are you?"

"Glad you find the idea so amusing," Remington replied in a droll tone.

"More… perplexing, I think. I seem to recall a young man telling me on more than one occasion that fidelity goes against human nature and marriage was nothing but a fairy tale." Remington nodded his head, while taking another bite.

"Mmmm, I did," he agreed, "and what's more I _believed_ it. But just as I'm no longer the person I once was, my thoughts on some matters have changed as well."

"And now you believe those things are possible?" Daniel challenged. Remington looked Daniel in the eye.

"I believe in Laura, Daniel," he told him with confidence. "If I've learned anything these last years, it's that when Laura is onboard with something, we never fail."

"Is it that or your desire—"

"Excuse me, Monsieur Steele," Pierre interrupted, stepping up to the table with a portable phone in his hand. "Your Madam Krebs is on the phone, insisting she must speak to you at once." Remington tapped his napkin against his lips, then after laying it on the table took the phone from Pierre.

"My apologies, Daniel. Won't be but a minute." He depressed the 'talk' button then lifted the phone to his ear. "Steele, here."

"Mr. Steele… Boss," Mildred panted. She was sitting on the floor with her back against the filing cabinets, a hand pressed to the base of her throat as she tried to draw a clean breath.

"Yes, Mildred," he answered brightly. "Indulging in lunchtime calisthenics, again?" Over the last few weeks, the woman had been continually voicing her determination to lose the 'extra ten pounds' she was carrying.

"I… think… I'm hav-… having… a.. hea-… heart attack," she managed.

" _A heart attack?"_ Remington's voice grew loud with alarm and he bolted out of his chair and strode rapidly towards the maitre de stand. "Are you at the office, darlin'?"

"Ye-… Yes… Boss—"

"Mildred, stop talking, I need you to focus on breathing." He snapped his fingers in Pierre's direction. The owner of L'Ornate looked up, a question on his face. "Ring up emergency services. Tell them we've need of an ambulance at our office, possible heart attack." He returned his attention to the phone. "Helps on the way, Mildred, and I'm leaving right now. I'll be there in no time."

"No… No…" she panted, insistently. "Miss… Ho-… Holt—"

"Laura's on her way? Then I'm afraid you'll have to endure the both—"

"No!" she cried out. "Acc-… accident."

"You had an accident?"

"Mi—… Miss… Ho… Holt!" she tried again. Remington's heart plunged to somewhere in the vicinity of his feet and his pulse began to race.

"Laura's been in an accident?" he managed to rasp around the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Wil-… Wilshire and We… Western… Bad." Remington drew a hand through his hair then pressed that hand to his mouth. The two most important women in his life, both of their lives potentially on the line. He wanted to bolt out the door, get to Laura as quickly as he could, but if he abandoned Mildred in her hour of need and anything were to—

"Harry, go to Laura," Daniel told him quietly. He'd followed Remington from the table and had heard enough of the one sided conversation to get the gist of what was going on. Taking the phone from Remington's hand, he lifted it to his own ear.

"Millie, it's Daniel. I'll make a poor substitution I'm sure, but I'm on my way."

She nodded, unseen, then dropping the phone, closed her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

In a manner most unlike himself, Daniel shoved past the people stepping off the elevator on the eleventh floor of Century Towers then walked quickly down the hallway towards suite 1157. When he'd first been introduced to Mildred Krebs, she'd both horrified and amused him with her over-the-top rendition of the country yokel, Mildred Groggins, mother of Myrtle 'Bunny' Groggins, fiancé of the future Duke of Rutherford, aka Harry, aka Remington Steele. But their association had been, at best, peripheral as he'd been preoccupied trying to thwart Harry's plans to denounce himself as the future Duke.

He'd enjoyed their conversations, however, as the two of them had conspired to lead Harry's Miss Holt to France. And at lunch on Monday, he'd discovered he truly liked her company. She was intelligent, witty, feisty, prone to colorful descriptors, vivacious… and fiercely devoted to Harry and Linda. By the time they'd finished their meal, she'd even managed to convince him to do something with her that he hadn't done in nearly half a century: Go bowling with her on Saturday afternoon.

He was beyond irritated when he swung open the door to the Agency to find Mildred slumped against the file cabinet, gasping for air and no help in sight. Pierre had called for an ambulance well before Daniel had departed the restaurant, so where they bloody hell were they?

He knelt down at her side and grasping her hand in one of his, pressed a pair of fingers to her wrist while consulting his watch.

"Miss... Holt?" Mildred begged. "How... is... Miss Holt?"

"Fine, fine," he prevaricated. "She'll have a few bruises no doubt and Harry was quite adamant that she be given a full work-up at the emergency ward. He's going there now." _Pulse one-ten._ He wasn't a doctor, had never even taken up the challenge to pretend to be one, but even he knew her pulse rate was alarmingly high.

Mildred grabbed at his sleeve.

"Fred… said… it was… bad," she challenged, her eyes still razor sharp despite the pain casting a shadow over them.

"Fred was running on adrenaline, my dear," he lied again, patting her hand to offer her comfort, "Clouds the perception. Do you, perchance, have any aspirin at hand?"

"Miss… Miss Holt's… desk," she gasped. "The… baby?" she inquired, as Daniel pushed himself to his feet and strode quickly to the office he'd seen Laura emerge from previously.

"Also, well," he called over his shoulder. "You've nothing to fear, Millie," he continued, as he pulled open a desk drawer and rummaged through it. Nothing. "Harry will make certain no stone is left unturned." He closed the drawer and opened the next, grabbing the clear, plastic bottle of aspirin, then shutting the drawer. "I've been given strict orders to inform you that you are to put the rest out of your mind and to focus upon yourself," he finished, as he kneeled down at her side again. Popping the cap off the bottle, he shook a single tablet into his palm. "They say chewing a single aspirin during a heart attack can help. Do you think you can manage it? I imagine it'll taste positively hideous."

"Ye—Yes," she gasped.

"Then here we are." He pressed the single tablet against her palm. Once she'd deposited it into her mouth, he turned his head and watched the hallway through the glass doors of the Agency. "Don't worry, Millie. Help will be here before you know it."

He wondered if that would end up being just another tale he'd told on the afternoon.

* * *

The ten minute drive to the vicinity of Wilshire and Western, had taken twenty-five, and still, more than four blocks away, traffic stood nearly idle, only trickling a half dozen vehicles forward every few minutes as traffic cops presumably tried to direct drivers around the accident at the intersection ahead. Remington's frustration had been mounting steadily over the last ten minutes, and finally he'd called it for what it was: He'd reach Laura quicker by foot than in the Auburn. Muttering an oath under his breath, he gave the steering wheel of the Auburn a hard yank, directing it into the parking lot of the Sizzler.

The Sizzler!

That he was about to abandon the Auburn in the heart of Los Angeles in the parking lot of what some of questionable taste referred to as a restaurant, spoke to his sense of urgency. Yanking off his jacket and tugging off his tie, he tossed both into the passenger seat, and slammed the car door behind him. As he sprinted down the city street, he loosened the two upper most buttons of his shirt. On a hot, muggy day, such as it was, by the time he arrived at the intersection a mere few minutes later, he was sweating buckets and struggling to catch his breath.

But it was the sight of the limo, being hoisted onto the back of a flatbed tow truck that nearly took him to his knees. Eyes wide, hand pressed to his mouth, he was rendered immobile as he stared with horror at the pulverized, distorted passenger side of the limo. If she'd been sitting in the seat she normally occupied…

Blinding fear sent him into a flurry of motion.

"Laura?! Laura!" he hollered, as he dodged around the slow moving vehicles crossing the intersection towards the ambulance occupying the turn lane. He careened to a stop at the open back doors, unable to compute at first what was before him.

"I tried to stop. The brakes were just… gone. I tried to stop," the distraught, middle-aged man rambled, as the police officer standing before him took notes and a paramedic checked the man's vitals. "I don't understand. I just had the brakes serviced three weeks ago. They were brand new. But there was nothing, just air. I tried to stop, I—"

The man reared back, nearly falling to his back on the stretcher, when Remington lunged for him.

"You did this?" he roared. The terror cloying at him begged for release, and a few, well-positioned blows to the bugger who was responsible might be just the ticket to making his emotions more manageable. But he never had a chance, as police officer and paramedic each grabbed an arm, hauling a struggling Remington away from ambulance and driver.

"Sir, unless you want to find yourself in the backseat of my cruiser, I'd suggest you calm it," the officer barked. The threat, when the words registered, had the effect of dousing Remington with ice water… and it had nothing whatsoever to do with tarnishing the image of Remington Steele and everything to do with an arrest serving a blockade to what he needed.

"The driver of the limo, the passenger…" he panted, eyes looking wildly from paramedic to officer, unknowingly clutching at the arm of the former.

"Driver's fine, at worst a mild case of whiplash. He insisted on going with the lady," the paramedic provided. Remington ripped his arm away from the officer and grasped both arms of the paramedic.

"How… the woman… what…" he couldn't force the words out. Thankfully, the paramedic had grown used to such a response after years of handling patients and their families.

"The woman took a serious blow to the head. The first squad scooped and ran." Remington gave the other man a little shake.

"Where? Where is she?"

"UCLA Medical Center, one of the best trauma—"

The paramedic never had an opportunity to finish the sentence, as Remington dashed back through the slow-moving traffic towards the Sizzler and the Auburn.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Remington burst through the doors of the emergency room of UCLA Medical's trauma center. He was by no means the man most people knew – composed, gregarious, charming, cutting a dashing figure wherever he went. Instead, he was a man besieged by fear, panic, and, frankly, more than a little rage. The twelve mile drive from Wilshire and Western had taken nearly fifty minutes in the midday traffic, fifty minutes to dwell on what he might find when he arrived. A pair of desperate eyes scanned the bleak room packed with people until they settled on the registration window. Not giving two damns about propriety, he elbowed his way in front of the person at the start of the line, ignoring their protests that they were there first.

"Holt. Laura Holt. She was brought in by ambulance."

"Have a seat in the waiting room," the bald, bespectacled man behind the glass partition droned, never looking up from the keyboard in front of him. It was unfortunate for the man that he not only resembled Oscar Bergman - the investigator from the State Bureau of Investigations, whom Remington still blamed, in part, for Laura's decision to leave him – but that he spoke with that same air of moral superiority that Bergman had. In an instant, anxiety and fear coalesced into fiery anger, and without a thought his hand moved towards the hole cut in the glass, having ever intention of yanking the bugger up by his necktie and yanking him to the glass.

"Mr. Steele!"

Remington's hand froze just millimeters from breaching the protective barrier and his head snapped in the direction from where his name had been called. Spinning on his heel he rapidly closed the fifty-foot gap between him and Fred. It was only because of the manners drilled into him by Daniel that he offered a hand, and inquired after Fred.

"How are you doing, mate?" Fred began to shake his head then stopped with a marked wince.

"Haven't been seen yet, sir, but I'm sure I don't have anything more than a few bumps and bruises," their trusted chauffer replied, then continued without being asked, "Miss Holt's in exam room eleven. Turn right inside, take the second left, third room on the right. Word of advice, Mr. Steele?" Impatience flashed in Remington's eyes.

"What's that, Fred?" he asked, taking care his irritation wasn't revealed by his voice.

"Unless you're family, you won't be allowed back and they won't tell you anything," Fred advised. He'd followed her back then had been summarily ejected from the room. Remington lay a grateful hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Appreciate the advice," he clipped. Dropping his hand from Fred's shoulder, Remington removed the ring that held a place of honor on the pinkie of his right hand, and, with a bit of finessing, slipped it on the ring finger of the left.

"Congratulations, sir," Fred jested, then grew serious. "I'll be in the waiting room if you wouldn't mind letting me know how Miss Holt is doing."

"I'll do that, mate," Remington agreed, then with a final, light clap of the other man's shoulder, he disappeared behind the swinging door.

And didn't make it a dozen steps, before a stern looking woman dressed in all white beckoned him.

"Excuse me! Sir! May I ask where you're going?"

"My wife, Laura Holt. Our driver informed me she's in exam eleven." The woman's eyes narrowed on him.

"She wasn't wearing a wedding band when she was brought in." Holding up his left hand, he waggled his fingers.

"She's forever taking her rings off before doing the dishes and forgetting them next to the sink," he quickly explained. "Can I—?" He motioned in the direction of Laura's room.

"She didn't mention a husband," she countered.

"Recent development," he retorted. "Now, may I go see my _wife._ " The woman cast a suspicious gaze at him.

"She's my patient. I'd be happy to take you there," she replied, sounding anything but happy. Without waiting for an answer, she walked in the direction of Laura's room, leaving him to follow. As the nurse swung the door to her room open, he took a moment to say a quick prayer Laura didn't give up his ruse.

"Your _husband,"_ the nurse emphasized the word, conveying her doubt, "Is here to see you."

Laura's eyes flickered away from the nurse to Remington. She never said a word to either confirm or deny his claims, she just held out her hand to him from where she was laying on the bed, curled up on her left side. Without hesitation he went to her, grasping her hand in his and leaning down to drop a kiss on her cheek.

The cold of her hand, the pallor of her skin, the blood caked in her hair, on her neck and chest… how fragile she appeared, huddled in the bed as she was… would haunt his dreams in the weeks to come.

Now, he squatted down so he was on eye level with her.

"How are you, love?" he asked. When fuzzy brown eyes tried to focus on him, then crossed before rolling upward in their sockets, he glanced at the nurse with alarm.

"She'd in an out," she advised. "I'll let Dr. Wang know you're here." Seemingly satisfied he was who he claimed to be, she left the room.

Refusing to release her hand, Remington reached blindly behind him, tugging forward the chair he'd spied when entering the room until he could finagle himself in it to sit. He cradled her cold hand between his, trying to warm it. He sat vigil, rocking slightly, his eyes never leaving her, while chanting to himself the reminder: _She's here, she's here, she's here, she's here…_ The thought was of little consolation. He had no answers, and, in truth, he was more frightened now having seen her than he'd been before arriving. She was so… still, so… pale.

He fought for his composure, waiting her out, waiting for news. Waiting for anything that might make the tightness in his gut ease, that would allow him to draw his first full breath in near on two hours.

Then, as he watched, her lashes fluttered and her eyes opened. Dazed brown eyes regarded him, and the smile of relief that twitched at his lips died suddenly when a tear slipped from her eye to roll down her cheek and her hand clutched at his.

"It… hurts," she whimpered. He drew their hands up to his mouth and pressed a hard kiss to the back of her knuckles. Her eyes cleared, then turned fearful. "The baby…" His heart jerked in his chest at the heartbreak in her voice. _She lost the babe then._ He was stunned by the force of his grief. His eyes moistened and some tears of his own threatened to spill, but with a will of steel he forced himself to set aside his own pain and to concentrate on hers.

"It'll be alright, Laura. What's most important is that we get you better so you can come—"

Her eyes rolled again, and she was gone.

Desolate, his head dropped forward and resting his forehead against their hands, he allowed the tears to fall…


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: This story has been discontinued until further notice. Please see the review posted on Hold Out Holt as to why.**_


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